The Mess You Left
by leftlanden
Summary: Sequel to Santana Lopez Can, In Fact, Do Anything but can work on its own as a one-shot since there's really not much plot here.  Complete.


**Chapter One**

So the week after Regionals I decided I needed to take a good, long look at my life. It was time for a little introspection, if you will. I looked deep within, did a lot of soul-searching, and came to the conclusion that I needed to focus on what was really, truly important in life: myself.

All of this drama with Berry and then with Brittany, and then the stress of the competition. . . I don't know, it was all so lame. I was over it. And honestly, I don't know why I even let it happen in the first place. But I do know that the reborn Santana Lopez does not let people like Berry or Britts push her into dealing with feelings, or whatever. Because let's be real here, what did that get me? I'll tell you what it got me – two less girls to have sex with, and really puffy eyes. And seriously, how am I supposed to show B what she's missing if I look like I'm having some kind of allergic reaction all the time?

Now, Berry had talked a good game, and her taste in television shows might be improving with my help, but she looked awful these days, too. We made eye contact across the room in chemistry one day and it was like looking into a shorter, more Israeli mirror.

Apparently it's because her melon-headed beau was still fooling around with Q, which I suppose for some reason was upsetting. I started to work on a scheme to break them up – something involving Photoshop and the half-naked pictures I had covertly taken of both Finn and Sam, just in case I ever needed them for something like this. But then I realized there was really nothing in it for me, and I abandoned it.

Plus, I was just super tired all the time. Most nights after school I went straight home, worked on my bottle of Jack or my stash of chronic lady to dull my thoughts, and laid in bed listening to my homegirls, Alanis and Adele. In my darkest moment I even contemplated downloading the Tegan and Sara catalog before what remained of my pride intervened.

Anyway, one night I was laying on my bed a little drunk and maybe just a touch high, and I may or may not have thought for a second that Ryerson had laced my joint with acid, when I heard a knock at my bedroom door and Rachel Berry's voice calling my name.

"Santana?" she said, sort of urgently. "Can I come in?"

I coughed, exhaling a cloud of smoke before I had planned to, and sat up, sort of frozen to the bed.

"Santana?" Rachel said again.

Okay, there it was again. So this was probably real.

I stood up and looked around. Shit, this place was kind of a mess. I kicked the dirty clothes on my floor under my bed and minimized all the browser windows on my laptop just in case. Then I opened a random textbook on my desk to make it look like I was doing something other than staring at my ceiling all night like a total loser. I mean, even homework is better than nothing. I thought about throwing a sweatshirt on over my tank top and pajama pants, but then I remembered it was Berry and I'd really rather not cover anything up.

I opened my bedroom door and there she stood, a messy stack of notebooks, text books, and sheet music wrapped in her arms, the layers of her blouse and sweater disheveled, with red eyes and messy hair.

"Rachel, did something happen? How did you even get here?" I asked as she brushed past me into the room.

"I took a cab. Also I told your mother we had a chemistry and glee club project to work on and I think that confused her somewhat, but also I think I scared her enough to just let me come upstairs. I'm usually a better liar than that, but I'm afraid I'm not at my most rational right now. And despite the fact that it smells sort of like a fraternity party in here, I really hope that you'll let me stay."

Tears started to well up in her eyes. "Because, Santana, I just couldn't be alone in my room feeling sorry for myself anymore. I just. . . need. . ."

Her voice trailed off and she made this little shrug, looking up at me with these sad, hopeful eyes.

Holy sweet Jesus. Rachel fucking Berry had just booty called me.

"You just need. . . what?" I asked, taking a step closer and narrowing my eyes.

She blushed and averted her eyes from mine, shifting her weight uncomfortably from one leg to the other.

"I just thought you might. . . understand."

"Sorry Berry, you're gonna have to spell it out for me," I said with a smile.

She bit her bottom lip and sighed, flicking her eyes up toward the ceiling. Then she let her gaze come back to my face, dropped the pile of books from her arms, and closed the short distance between us.

She wrapped her hands around the back of my neck, pulled her body against me, and pressed her mouth against mine. Her tongue worked its way into my mouth before I could even get out a gasp.

My stomach dropped like the first hill on a roller coaster, and the butterflies settled into my body somewhat lower. Christ, she was _attacking_ me.

I ran my hands up underneath her shirt, kneading the warm skin of her back, then slid my right hand down the waistband of her skirt and inside her underwear, pressing my fingers into the left side of her ass.

She choked out a moan at the sudden intimate contact and wrapped her left leg around my hip. Then with a little hop, she wrapped the other one around me too.

I was still not entirely sure I hadn't had a psychotic break, but the feel of all of her body weight resting on me and the sudden heat of her center against my lower belly sent a burst of energy through my veins. "God, Rachel," I gasped. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her tight to keep her up. I kicked my bedroom door shut and carried her the few steps across the room to my bed, falling roughly on top of her.

She kept her legs wrapped around me so tightly that I could barely peel myself away from her enough to rip open her blouse. She murmured in protest when my lips left hers and clawed at my neck to try to bring me back down to her.

She pulled my hair out of its ponytail and then my tank top over my head, exhaling appreciatively as my tits fell against her body.

I sat up just long enough to yank the rest of her clothing off, then mine, throwing it across the room behind me.

She swept my hair out of the way and sucked on my neck just below my ear. My hips started grinding against her without my permission. She moaned at the feeling as I pushed against her, and then dug her nails into my shoulder blades, dragging them down my body, hard and slow.

"FUCK, Rachel!" I gasped, squirming to get her nails out of the skin of my lower back.

I tried to reach behind me to grab her wrists but she eluded me, digging her nails back in at the base of my neck and scratching one after the other down my spine.

_Oh, bitch._ I wrapped my left hand around a handful of her hair and used it for leverage to roll her over on top of me.

"Okay, sweetness," I whispered, digging the nails of my right hand into her ass and opening her body as I dragged them slowly across her curve, over her hip, and up her left side. "Santana can play that way, too."

She grimaced and cried out in pain, but ground against me and leaned her head forward to give resistance to my hand in her hair. God, she was really enjoying this. I yanked harder and she squeezed her eyes shut and moaned, "Fuuuuck, yes."

Without opening her eyes she dropped her head to my chest and started working her tongue in circles around my left nipple. My eyes crossed then closed, I let go of her hair and reflexively drew my other hand from her back up to the pillow above my head. My legs wrapped around her hips and I let my head drop back against the pillow.

I let her work her warm little mouth over one nipple then the other. Every time I moved either of my legs I could feel the stickiness building up between them, just begging for her fingertips. The muscles of my thighs and my stomach clenched involuntarily every time her tongue swept across the most sensitive spots at the tips of my nipples. She drew my voice out in irregular gasps.

I needed to be inside of her, like now.

I tried to wriggle my hand between our bodies. "No way. Stop it," she hissed, grabbing my wrist. "I'm going first for once."

I tried again. She caught my hand right at our bellybuttons and we strained against each other, me pushing toward her body, her trying to push my hand away.

I won. I wrestled my fingers through dark curls far enough to brush past her clit, getting just a tantalizing hint of the pool of wetness below. Her jaw dropped open as she wrenched her hips away from my hand.

And then all of a sudden my eyes were watering, and it took me about five startled seconds before I realized – she had fucking slapped me across the face.

And now she was staring me down with a challenge in her eyes, her mouth open and her tongue resting against her teeth, watching me for a reaction.

Now, I could go any number of ways with this. Slap her back? Push her off the bed? Beat the shit out of her, Lima Heights style?

But it turns out what I really wanted. . .

_"Do that again."_

She didn't hesitate for a god damn second. She sent her hand stinging across my face a second time.

It set my body on fucking fire.

I wrapped my arms around her, shifted her off of me, and pushed her belly-down against the bed. I yanked her hair so hard her head was forced to fall backwards and her back arched as her ass pushed upwards against me. I leaned forward so that I could breathe into her ear while I slid two fingers inside of her.

I fucked her with long, slow strokes, punctuating each thrust into her body with an exhale across her ear.

"So, Berry," I rasped, "Who is it that's going first?"

She squirmed against me as my breath tickled her ear and her neck.

"Oh, that's right, I am. Because. . . oh look, your legs are open. My fingers are inside you . . like that. . and. . . oh, like that. And . . . do you hear that?" I paused to let the sounds reach her ears.

"That's the sound of a super. . . wet. . . little girl.

Cause you like it. . . when I fuck you.

You like . . . when I take you."

She whimpered these tiny, sexy little noises every time I whispered a phrase in her ear.

"So I just need to know. What. . . are you gonna do. . . for me, Rachel?"

This time she let out a moan that trailed off into a growl.

"Santana, please," she panted. "More."

"That's right," I said, "keep begging for it."

Her breathing was jagged, irregular. I shortened and quickened my stroke and she clenched around my fingers. I pressed against her other hole with my thumb and her body tensed.

"Yes, god," she moaned into the pillow.

"Yeah, I knew you would like that, too."

She cried out again and again, rolling her hips against me over and over. It was like the more contact, the more sensations I gave her, the more she let go. Hoping that the television downstairs was turned up loud, I reached around in front of her with my free hand and dug my nails into the skin of her chest. She nearly screamed; her body clenched so tightly it almost forced my fingers out, then she shuddered and reached backwards to grab onto me – somewhere, anywhere – riding my fingers hard through her climax until she collapsed, gasping for breath, beneath me.

I collapsed on top of her, acutely aware of the heat and dampness of her body everywhere I was touching her. I brushed the hair back from her face and caught a tear sliding down her flushed cheek.

She was totally emotional tonight. I wiped the tear away with my fingertips and rolled onto my back beside her. She rolled onto her side to face me, then planted a small kiss on my chest just below my neck.

"Sorry, I'm not crying or anything," she murmured. "I just really needed a release."

"Yeah, I kinda got that," I said.

She seemed to sort of retreat into her thoughts then, and I didn't want to upset her - trying to avoid drama and feelings for a while, for the love of Christ - so I laid still next to her.

"I want to know what you taste like," she said after a few minutes, looking up to meet my eyes.

The butterflies kicked up again in my belly. The idea of her mouth on me. . .

"Are you sure?" I asked her, my voice cracking embarrassingly on the last word.

"I've given it extensive thought," she said with a nod. "I'm sure."

"Hang on," I said, and reached over to my dresser where my joint had almost burned itself away. "This is going to waste. And you need a smoke after that." I picked it up and took a long drag. Then I handed it to Rachel.

She took it gingerly and held it two feet away from her. "Well I'm fairly certain I've already acquired a contact high, so I guess it doesn't make much of a difference."

I expected coughing and at least one of those Berry-patented faces, but she inhaled and held it down like a pro. It was wicked hot. Plus, watching her fingers come so close to her mouth made me feel like squirming.

She finally exhaled, blowing a cloud of smoke up at my ceiling, then reached over me to stub out the last smoking remnants on the ashtray on my dresser.

She held herself over me and said, "You must be dying for release."

"Whatever," I said, unconvincingly.

"I mean, the way you asserted your dominance over me. I know what that does to you. Plus, your lips are dark," she said, bending down to kiss them.

"And your nipples are hard," she said, sliding down my body to run her tongue over each of them in turn.

She slid further down until her head hovered just above my center. "So I'm fairly certain I know what I can expect to find here," she said.

I wanted to comment on her ridiculously formal tone, but I found that I was holding my breath as I felt her fingers open me. I let it out with an "Oh my god," when her warm little tongue slid against me.

So then she clamped her lips down on my clit and massaged it with her tongue, and I forgot my fucking name. There was just. . . all this wetness and friction and these warm waves of pleasure. Tension inside of me, and fire under her tongue. Why straight women even bothered with existing was a mystery to me at this moment.

She drew her name out of me with a whine, a few times in a row, I think, and I remember twirling her hair around my fingers. I remember her hands gripping my thighs as my body jerked beneath her and I remember digging my heels into her sides above her hips as she made me come against her lips.

"Are you okay?" I asked her as she slid back up to rest her head on the pillow next to me, a sort of dazed look on her face.

"That was intense," she whispered. "But in a really good way. I think I'm going to have bruises on my sides."

"I would say sorry, Berry, but I'm pretty sure if we looked under your fingernails we'd find traces of my blood."

She giggled. Hysterically.

"Oh my God, you're high, Berry." I leaned over and kissed her, sucking on her bottom lip. "But your mouth tastes extra good with me on it," I said with a smirk.

"That's what I like about you, Santana, your unfailing modesty."

I rolled my eyes. "Whatever, lezberry, I ain't wrong."

I fell halfway asleep before she said, "Santana, I'm hungry. Do you have Doritos?"

I glared at her and peeled myself off the bed to find my pajamas. "Next time we're doing this at your house so you have to go get the food."

_fin_


End file.
